


Try Hard: Whipped

by AsbestosMouth



Series: Mayflower [3]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: 2008 is modern dammit, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, BDSM, Biting, Bloodplay, Breathplay, Comedy, F/M, I swear it is less terrifying than it sounds, M/M, Not as screwed up as you'd think honest, Pub fics make me happy, Ramsay is his own warning, So much leather that there is a cow shortage, Strangulation, Twisted and Fluffy Feelings, U2 hate as is sensible
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-29
Updated: 2016-06-29
Packaged: 2018-07-19 00:54:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,607
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7338031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AsbestosMouth/pseuds/AsbestosMouth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Beric and Thoros come to a mutual decision to break up, all because of a slight misunderstanding regarding a slave collar. That is no excuse for Dondarrion to inflict Ubloody2 on the entire pub, is it? <em>With or Without You</em> is a travesty at the best of times, but on repeat? It's enough to make Ramsay want to stab something. However, who'd think that Bono would be the catalyst for a less than beautiful and at times really quite mutually violent friendship, wherein everything is still quite lovely, just. Y'know. Whippy.</p>
<p>The stand alone Beric/Ramsay fic in the <em>Mayflower/Try Hard</em> universe that you've all been desperate to avoid because really, what insane sort of person comes up with that ship? Can be read as a stand alone piece.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Try Hard: Whipped

**Author's Note:**

> Apologies if my BDSM is a little rusty - it's been a while since I've been involved in the scene.
> 
> Beric and Ramsay; the ship that keeps on giving. Albeit by biting everything whilst setting it cheerfully on fire. The whole idea for the ship arose in _Fangs_ , because I thought it hilarious - the person who kills vs. the person who will not die. A perfect playmate for an angry Ramsay, a Beric that cannot be destroyed. Hehehehe!
> 
> Then I started shipping it properly, and now it will not stop, and it consumes my dreams. 
> 
> It really isn't as bad as it sounds, and is quite fluffy; no sex, no proper violence, I just thought I should plaster warnings all over the place because, as we all know, Ramsay is his own warning. God, I love that tag. Time frame - set in the ten months or so before Brienne arrives at King's Landing.

* * *

 

 

Someone, and Ramsay will quietly remove the gizzards of whoever did it, has the sheer temerity to put U2 on the jukebox.

 

_ U _ fucking _ 2 _ .

 

He stalks to the bar, bristling as the tones of that bastard Bono croon darkly from the speakers, orders a Coke. Not a diet one. He needs the sugar to deal with the monstrosity beating his senses. Glares at the jukebox as he goes to try and stop the madness. Puts some coins into the slot and searches for something that isn’t so pathetic. It is the sort of music beloved by sad forty something year old men who still think they are cool enough to be at one with youth culture. They tend towards comfort fit denim and sometimes sport ponytails.

 

The urge to punch the glass rises.

 

_ With or with you. With or without you, my love. I can’t live with or without you. _

 

He searches, snarling, to something less evil. For a moment Ramsay contemplates retaliating with something by Steps, or some twattish boyband, just to piss the entire pub off, but he finds himself deep in his beloved late ‘70s punk and goes for _ Alternative Ulster _ by Stiff Little Fingers.

 

That is a classic. Not U2. Not soft rock. Guitars, and screaming, and men piercing their body parts with random bits of metal. Proper music.

 

He goes to collect his Coke, and Davos gives him a curiously sympathetic nod.

 

“He’s got it on repeat, Bolton. You might be waiting a little while.” Davos, who lived through the era, is quite knowledgeable about ‘70s music. He is more Billy Bragg than Sex Pistols, more left wing socialist than anarchy in Westeros. He was out on strike in ‘85, supports trade unions and minimum wages.

 

“Who has?”

 

The bartender nods to a booth.

 

Tall, red-gold hair. Battered. The man stares into space, fingers tap dancing upon the table, and nurses a pint

 

“Beric? Beric listens to U2?” Fuck off.

 

“It was his and Thoros’ song, and they broke up,” Davos murmurs, all warm fatherly concern. 

 

“No wonder Thoros left the bitch if this is what he inflicted upon him.” Savageness increases as the song kicks back in, the usual strings wailing and that bespectacled wanker howling into the microphone.

 

“This is the fourth time it has been on.” There is a tiny note that indicates a slight breaking in Davos’ infinite patience, something that might, if pushed hard enough, see Seaworth finally pissed off.

 

“I’ll go and poke him.”

 

“Be nice. Or at least, since you cannot be nice, don’t be too much of a bastard.” Davos takes no shit, especially from certain angry Bolton men.

 

* * *

 

“Seriously? This pile of shit?” He slides into the booth, glares at the man, waits for his presence to register.

 

Beric seems his usual self, though somewhere on some zen cloud populated by fire priests and shit music. He blinks, refocuses, smiles in his usual calm manner, then shrugs his impossible shoulders. “Thoros, not me. I run towards the classical.”

 

A grumble, Ramsay neatly dismembering a beer mat in lieu of getting his hands on the Thoros’ face.

 

“So? What’s happened?” They are not friends. Sometimes they talk, and he gets the impression that Beric is far more intelligent than can be given credit for. Sure the stupid bastard stood on an UXB in Essos and was medically discharged from the army, and he spends most of his time concussed and in a rugby scrum, and he’s not sure what the other does outside of the pub and the team, but Beric seems to have a cleverness that lurks, unbidden, under scarred skin and head injuries.

 

“We decided we are better as friends.” He rubs at a silver band about his neck, a reflex gesture.

 

Ramsay knows what the metal hoop is, because he has seen it before, on others. The way it sits, tailored for throats and collarbones, a solid curve of gleaming steel.

 

Not what he expects on Beric Dondarrion, all six feet five inches of muscled front row.

 

“Also why the fuck are you wearing a slave collar?”

 

Does Beric even know what it is? He must. He has to. After all, it is around his neck. Lockable with a tiny key; it is the type posited in some trashy sci-fi books that Ramsay read avidly when his own ideas towards BDSM rose in his mid teens. Realised it was all a load of bollocks. Spent much of his time on various fetish porn sites with Roose’s credit card instead.

 

The corner of Beric’s mouth twitches slightly.

 

“Thoros lost the key, and I was not overly keen to wear it. Hence why we are broken up.”

 

Beric and Thoros is fine. Was fine. Whatever. Beric being topped by his scrawny Red Priest friend, he can deal with. But those collars are hardcore pieces of kit, and are never normally given lightly. He sees them on partners who are completely devoted to the D/s lifestyle. It is all too ritualised for Ramsay, who thrives in chaos. All too 24/7, and serious, like a relationship. Not that he doesn’t sometimes think of having a permanent sub, but he has never found someone quite as fucked up as himself. Most want cuddles, or sex, or some romantic attachment.

 

Ramsay just wants to strap someone to something and beat the shit out of them. More exercise than anything else. Like yoga. But with whips. Obviously. It sends him to a calm place his mind does not normally inhabit.

 

“Bolt cutters?”

 

He has some at home, just in case anyone needs a fingertip lopped off. No one has taken Ramsay up on his kind offer. Not yet. One day.

 

“I have given him until eight tonight, and then the bolt cutters are coming out.” Beric slides a finger under the metal, then shakes his head. “What is wrong with a good old-fashioned leather collar? I think Thoros reads too much Gor*, even though I am as far away from a nubile large-breasted slave girl that can be seen.” He is. Nubile slave girls do not have impossible shoulders and the sort of arse that dragons can be successfully bounced off.

 

“Much more scope. You can’t throttle someone with that.” He nod, all derision. “It’s like trying to strangle someone with piano wire.”

 

“The voice of experience?” Beric drinks a little more, the metal bright around his larynx and dancing as he swallows.

 

“Getting a grip on it is useless, unless you’re in gloves. Then you have to plan to do it, takes the element of surprise out of the entire thing. Much better using kit that can be spontaneously utilised.”

 

Beric laughs, low and rumbling, and doesn’t seem to be fazed he is talking about the ins-and-outs of garotting. Nothing gets to him. Ramsay has never seen him outside of that laid-back and perma-zen mode. “Definitely the voice of experience. However, I should have realised. No one wears that much leather without being at least slightly kinky.”

 

“I look good in leather.” He does. Like that bastard Sandor Clegane in those tight black jeans. Drogo on his motorbike with no shirt on. Jon Snow in eyeliner. Theon in anything. It is a given.

 

“You do,” and it is said mildly, warm honey-gold eyes appraising.

 

* * *

 

“So,” Ramsay says, examining his handiwork and wielding the bolt cutters alarmingly. “Better?”

 

“Much.” The collar is in pieces on the floor. An apologetic text from Thoros at 7.58pm meant Beric taking up the offer of being cut out of the shitty thing, and they are in the chaotic flat _ cum _ nest that Ramsay calls home. It is a handsome place, all high ceilings and cornicing, plasterwork scrolls and stained glass buckled and old. However, since it belongs to Bolton it is not so much a cesspit as a collection of everything, all messily arranged. Arty black and white posters of violent films decorate the dark-grey walls, album covers of seminal punk bands framed and hung, and every piece of furniture is leather. “Very much appreciated.”

 

Ramsay tried leather sheets once, but gave up after he stuck to them one too many times. Nothing worse than peeling his arse off something when he needs to piss.

 

Everything is expensive, from the thick carpeting to the heavy curtains, and either black, silver, the weird pink of intestines, or dark grey. Roose prefers to keep him leashed by funding a lifestyle he can never dream to live up to on his own. It means behaving nicely and not stabbing his father to death in a fit of pique.

 

“Want to play?” Ramsay flops into an armchair and hooks his thigh over the arm. Beric glows all autumnal colours in the dark surroundings, and his hair is the perfect length for grabbing, dragging his head back, and biting all the way down his scarred throat.

 

Nice visual.

 

“You are eager, aren’t you?” Beric laughs, leans against the wall. 

 

“Do you know how long it is since I had someone to play with who isn’t scared of me?” It seems more of an admission than a joke, and Beric tilts his head, just a little.

 

“Who would be terrified of you? You’re only about five foot seven, aren’t you? A little sprat of a thing.”

 

Button. Pressed.

 

Oh. No. No one gets at Ramsay for his height. The last person who tried ended up picking their teeth out of their pint glass. He slithers forward, glittering and glaring and making himself look terrifying, comes face to chest with Beric who looks down at him rather affably.

 

“Do you want me to punch the fuck out of your face?” he hisses, going up on his toes. Usually this sends potential playmates into quivering jelly masses of horror. Something about Ramsay is apparently unbalanced, or so his therapist that he sees on the occasion Roose gets on his arse about it, posits, but he likes to think he is more strange than psychopathic. Interestingly different. “Do you want me to beat the shit out of you, because that’s what you’ll make me do.”

 

A long finger boops him gently on the nose. Ramsay stares at it, slightly cross-eyed.

 

“You’re adorable, Ramsay. Like a tiny honey badger, perhaps, who doesn’t give any fucks whatsoever.”

 

He is not a meme!

 

He lunges, snarling, thoughts of destruction in his head as he goes for the kill. No one speaks to Ramsay Bolton like that. No one mocks. No one calls him adorable.

 

No one boops him on the nose like he is the cutest puppy in the litter. Bastard.

 

His fist slams into Beric’s shoulder, hard enough to send his knuckles stinging against thick muscle and heavy bone, and he pulls back to sneer.

 

Sees the expression on the man’s face. Pauses, boggling.

 

Beric looks...tranquil.

 

“Shit.” What else can he say? He lashes out a second time. Once more for good luck, and then again, because fuck luck in the ear, until his hand starts to swell and he realises he really should use something else more robust, like the bolt cutters, or an ashtray, or his forehead. Something more solid than his hand, which is usually perfectly adequate, but not this time. Beric will die. He will die. Die.

 

Normal people would be on the floor, begging, just where Ramsay likes them. Beric, however, is not normal. No one can look that cheerful about being hit, though his eyes are dark, pupils massive.

 

“Call that a punch? You’ll have to hit me harder than that.”

 

“What the fuck?” 

* * *

 

“I am going to break you,” Ramsay promises, circling. He is in black leather, well-worn and second skin - the most comfortable thing in his extensively black and leathery wardrobe - and is edging towards that lovely spot in his head where he is in perfect control. Sometimes he wonders if this is a reaction to his life being dominated by Roose, and sometimes ponders if proper therapy might help, but he rather work out his Daddy issues with someone willing to be thrashed on a weekly basis.

 

Not that he does think of Roose in these situations. That would be weird.

 

Beric is naked, and this is not a sexual thing. It is just how it is. Beric is naked, and chained to a wall in a dungeon somewhere in the dodgy part of King’s Landing. Subjectively he is really not at all bad looking. Lots of scars, and that is pleasing. Nice pale skin that shows bruises. Sturdy body, challenging. Good backside.

 

“Of course you are, Ramsay.” Even under the mask, black silk over his face, the twist of a smile can be heard.

 

“I,” and he trails the riding crop down that beautifully scarred and solid back, from nape to muscled arse, “am going to destroy you, and you will call me Master.”

 

“Of course you are, Ramsay.”

 

A swipe for temerity and sarcasm, and he gets to it. Loses himself. Finds nirvana.

* * *

 

“What the fuck are you made of?” He wipes the bleeding skin with a cloth, douses the wounds with antiseptic liquid that stings like fuck but is nothing considering the workout they have both had.

 

“Possibly Valyrian steel.” Just the slightest tremor makes Ramsay realise, and it is a burning triumph because his shoulders ache and his back kills, and he is soaked in sweat for his effort, he might have got to Beric Dondarrion, just a little. “We’ll find out, won’t we, Ramsay?”

 

“Most people would be screaming their tits off after that.” He checks the tightness of the bindings, frowns, then releases them.

 

For someone hell-bent on making someone else bleed, he is considerate. He does this by the rules; play things don’t come around often enough, which is understandable given Ramsay’s impressively sadistic reputation. Others shy away, go to kinder, less frightening Dom/mes. He keeps his pets healthy because he appreciates their service. He likes to keep them healthy, so he can keep beating them. An ouroborus of pain. Makes perfect sense.

 

Beric twists, tries to see his back, so Ramsay takes a photo with his phone and they admire the handiwork together.

 

“That’s a good one.” Just in the small of his back, curling down over his hip. Even Ramsay has to admit that it is poetry in welts and blood. “That one will take a while to heal. What did you use for that?”

 

Ramsay seizes an evilly thin cane, slashing it through the air. It whistles. “It’s extra whippy.”

 

“I like it, it’ll scar nicely. Use that again, definitely”

 

“You’re weird.”

 

“So are you,” Beric points out with his usual mildness. He looks as if he has been well-fucked by the best lover in the world, all soft-eyes and flushed cheeks. If Ramsay were different, if Beric were normal, they would be curled up on the floor and he’d be taking the big redhead through the other side of this, but he’s not got Dondarrion truly into sub-space yet. Almost. Flirted with it. Called it pretty and tempted it to perhaps a little grope. Second base, definitely. Not balls deep, though. Not yet.

 

No fucking. He doesn’t want that. What is orgasm compared to whipping? Sex is boring compared to blood and biting and making grown people writhe and beg.

 

Not that Ramsay hates sex. He loves it. It’s another power trip, and he gets off on domination. He knows he’ll go home, strip off, shower, fall in to bed without towelling off, and wank over the blood trailing down Beric’s spine. Not Beric at all. Just his blood and his sexy wounds. Possibly that rather nice bum. Just that, the sexy wounds, and the blood. Not Beric. Theon is what he fantasises about, untouchable fuckable Theon, who he will one day kidnap and keep all for himself.

 

“I book the room for ten thirty for Thursday evenings. Interested?”

 

“So the great Master thinks we should have another bash?”

 

Ramsay finds that vicious welt with his fingernail, watches Beric’s golden eyes widen, pleased and drugged. He seems to have no off-button, and that is fascinating. How far can he take Dondarrion? How much can he take? He as no idea, but is more than willing to find out. Safe words need to be re-discussed, and how far he is allowed to go, but that can be for next time.

 

Of course it is ‘Rh’llor.’ Couldn’t be anything else with those tattoos up his arms, and the burning conviction of the neo-converted?

 

“One day,” he promises, scratching, “you will break for me.”

 

“You little psycho.” Rumbling, and fond, and Beric puts an arm companionably about Ramsay’s shoulders and slides his long fingers into the sweat-streaked dark curls. It is an affectionate gesture, and feels all at once safe and submissive.

 

It feels...nice.

 

* * *

 

“Diet Coke?” Beric leans against the bar, and has made no attempt to hide the weals at the back of his neck. They stand proud and redly-angry, like a brand, and they are seriously pretty. Biteable. Pokeable. Sandor Clegane and Tormund Giantsbane stare at him from their usual table, huge and menacing. At least Sandor is. Tor is too ginger to be truly scary. Redheads are pussies. They seem pissed off about the beatings, but what can those two do?

 

Ramsay’d totally take them in a fight.

 

Theon drifts past, stoned and sexy as fuck, and Ramsay stares at him thoughtfully for a moment before settling next to Beric.

 

Davos does the honours, pours the drink, slides it over.

 

An arm hooks across his shoulders, fingers in his hair, and it still feels nice after all of these weeks. Months. Five and a half months, almost half a year of Thursday night playtime. They have gone through the off season, some of the way into the next. Ramsay has been sent off three times so far, and has been sick on Edd Tollett just the once. It was all Loras Tyrell’s fault.

 

“How’re you?” Beric always asks, solicitously. 

 

“Roose.” Understanding dawns in the amber eyes, the fingers tighten just a fraction. Beric can be protective when it comes to dealing with the Bolton patriarch.

 

Father is getting married, and wants Ramsay to be in the wedding party. Suits are demanded. Best behaviour. He is supposed to bring a plus one, and there is no one that Ramsay can think of to fulfil the role. He has no friends outside of this pub. There are no women who he can ask - they all belong to the other players, and tend to avoid him.

 

Apparently Ramsay is considered creepy, which he finds offensive. Baelish is creepy. Qyburn is extra creepy. To be lumped in with those two is bloody embarrassing.

 

“No wonder you feel tense.” Outside of the dungeon, in public, Beric is curiously attentive. Ramsay enjoys it. No one has ever bothered with him like this before. He doesn’t quite know if service to the man who pulverises him on a weekly basis is one of the kinks that Dondarrion possesses, or, weirdly, they have moved on from just BDSM partners to something approaching friends. All he knows is that drinks are bought, necks are rubbed, thoughtful little emails and texts are received. A pizza delivered after a long day of ranting at dickheads on the Westernet. Sci-fi boxed sets. Fascinating new fetish porn websites on which he can thrash Roose’s credit card. Links to impressive torture devices. Literature about yoga, relaxation, and breathing techniques - obviously now Ramsay is thinking of adding strangulation, breath play, to their repartee. Probably not quite what was intended, but still.

 

Beric opens up a vast new world of sadistic opportunity, which is calming.

 

Theon is not wedding taking to material, though it would be hilarious watching Roose having to deal with a seriously drug-addled Greyjoy being sexy all over the place and probably trying to shag the entire guest list. Apart from Ramsay. Obviously.

 

“Come to a wedding with me.” He phrases it in a manner that makes it an order, not a suggestion.

 

Who else is Ramsay going to trust to keep him sane? At least if things get to him, and they will, because of Roose, he can drag Beric off somewhere dark and serene, or at least the gent’s toilets, and ravage his arm for a little while. He is an excellent chew toy. After the Loras Incident, and the sending off, Beric made it perfectly clear that in the event Ramsay needs to bite, and he always does need to sink his teeth into something because it is how he deals with the tension and pressure of rugby and life, he must go and savage Dondarrion’s fire-inked arms rather than opposition players, or Edd Tollett.

 

Edd tastes like fish. Ramsay has no idea why. He just does.

 

“Of course. Suit and tie? Whose is it?” Easy as that.

 

“Dad’s.” Darkly. “He’s marrying the fat bitch granddaughter of Walder Frey he’s been courting. Apparently the old bastard paid Roose to take her off his hands. Promises she’s fertile.” He actually doesn’t mind Walda, even if she makes him twitchy with her sweet manner and generosity.

 

His lip curls, disgusted, and Beric’s hand strokes rhythmically through his hair. It is strange how soothing that can be.

 

Theon wanders past again, leering at a blonde with pneumatic breasts and a shirt so short that technically it should be classed as a belt. Beric notices, like he always does, and caresses his hair more. Still soothing, still nice.

 

“Is there a wedding list? I’ll get something from the both of us.”

 

* * *

 

Ramsay slumps in his grey suit with tails, top hatted and feeling like a right dickhead, and lets Beric do that circulating thing he does so well. The Dreadfort is as dismally lowering as always, just like his good old Dad. Having three million Freys about makes it even less appealing. All he wants to do is go home, or at least to the dungeon, and take his frustration out on his bitch’s willing back.

 

Society fucking weddings.

 

There is a lot of pink. Walda loves pink. Her gown is the same colour as the Flayed Man; voluminous, and corseted, and her tits threaten to escape over the top like blancmange.

 

“May I say how lovely you look, Lady Bolton? Your grandfather must be so proud.”

 

Walda blushes. She is grossly fat, and obsessed with pink, but he has to admit she is very pretty in a ringletted sort of way. The woman is perhaps just a year or two older than Ramsay himself. She is nice, and that in itself is suspicious. No one is ever that nice without an ulterior motive. She sends him little aid boxes filled with cakes, and sweets, and thoughtful bits and pieces. Emails that ask if he is eating correctly, and if he needs any money. He always takes the money.

 

She is up to something. Probably wants to disinherit him and put her own spawn in power within the Dreadfort.

 

Which will not happen.

 

Beric, in a dark suit and black tie and looking incredibly respectable since he has his military colours discreetly over his breast pocket, is doing that thing he does to Ramsay. Faking it here, though, he can tell. Beric has the ability to make a person think they are the only one in the room worth talking with, the single human worthy his time and effort. It is curiously charming, and Ramsay hates that the man’s attention isn’t on him, where it should be. It makes Walda and her three chins jiggle and wobble. All play acting, making nice. Mostly because Ramsay refuses to, and Beric is protecting him from the Wrath of Roose by cunning deflection, military service, and that arse.

 

Some people have stared at Beric’s arse. They are not allowed to. It belongs to Ramsay.

 

“Please, do call me Walda! It’s so nice finally meeting one of Ramsay’s friends.” She looks uncertain for a moment, unsure if she has said the correct thing, then her smile relights to the normal 100w brightness.

 

Bitch. She knows he has no friends. She is rubbing it in. Fat cow. But she does bake gorgeous biscuits, and Beric helps finish them off. Sugar is good when he’s bleeding. 

 

“He talks so much about you, I feel I know you already.”

 

Another giggle, and a blush, and is Beric flirting?

 

Beric is flirting with his stepmother.

 

* * *

 

“You brought a man as your plus one,” Roose states in his soft, dangerous voice. They are closeted for a moment in the study, where Ramsay always ends up being told he is a disappointment, nothing but trouble, a broken thing. This is quite normal to the point where he has finally relaxed a tiny bit and doesn’t quite want to shoot everyone in the head.

 

“Yes, father.”

 

It is like being before a judge and jury - one that prefers execution to gaol time. However, this is far more pleasurable than being surrounded by Freys, who keep pushing random girls at him. They all look like Walder, and that’s just wrong.

 

His father stares, and it is like looking into a mirror. The same pale eyes and jawline, the same flickering of expression though Roose guards himself rather more.

 

“He is...acceptable.”

 

In the tone and language of the Boltons, and if Beric were female, Roose would be asking when the wedding is.

 

* * *

 

“You flirted with her,” he hisses. They are in his childhood room at the Dreadfort, overlooking the stables and kennels. Everything is so very tidy, and so very cleanly sterile, and so very un-Ramsay. He hates it. He wants mess, and chaos, and clothes all over the floor. Ashtrays. Piles of fetish gear. Porn DVD cases. Polite society dictates they have a short rest between the wedding breakfast and the evening reception, and Ramsay dragged Beric to his old living quarters to try and come down a little. His head is spinning, screaming from trying to behave, the tension at being near Roose, and the sheer scale of having to deal with people he despises.

 

“Yes, I did, as it deflected their attention from you. Do you need help with your tie?” The warmth in the man’s voice dials the pressure back, just a little, so he isn’t about to start kicking the shit out of Beric to lessen his own inner turmoil.

 

“It seems stuck. I hate fucking morning suits.” Ramsay tugs at it, snarls, and then submits to Beric’s ministrations. “I look like a cock.”

 

“I prefer you normally, yes. This is a little too tidy for you, and I miss your Doc Martens. You aren’t properly you when they’re missing.” The tie snicks from the stiff collar, and Ramsay drags the shirt over his head without unbuttoning it. Forgets about the cufflinks holding the cuffs closed. Gets enveloped, condom-like, in starched white cotton. Swears.

 

“I hate my life.”

 

“No you don’t.” Beric rescues him again. “Are you wearing a Sex Pistols t-shirt under your wedding outfit?”

 

“Yes. Fuck off. Give hand.”

 

It is offered. Ramsay takes it and shoves a knuckle into his mouth, sucking, chewing lightly. He calms, in degrees, especially when Beric says that if he gets through dinner without eviscerating anyone with a steak knife, they can play strangulation later.

 

* * *

 

They surface sometime after midnight, gasping, bruises blossoming dark and hellish along the whiteness of Beric’s throat. At some point Ramsay lost himself for just a moment, and the result is a bloody bite mark over the man’s heart, dripping sluggishly. Every so often a tongue finds the wound, and he shivers as saliva stings and the muscle, slick and searching, traces tooth marks.

 

Beric just smiles, like he does when he sets himself alight and he feels his nerve endings fizzle, and paints symbols of ancient houses in his own blood across his chest. Tully fish. Bolton flayed men. Dondarrion lightning bolt. Paw prints, and spears, and roses. He is the nearest to being broken that he has ever been, but still refuses to tip over into the abyss. Sometimes the temptation is there, but he has too much fun taunting Ramsay, driving him to greater, bloodier, more violent and spectacular feats.

 

Also he might have come in his smart wedding trousers when he lost consciousness, delirious and turned on beyond measure, seeing nothing before the grey descended apart from weird pale eyes and Ramsay’s gorgeously demented sharp-toothed grin.

 

It doesn’t really register, not much, until Beric wakes up at four in the morning, sits bolt upright, and realises he is fucked.

 

Ramsay is curled next to him, all tangled hair, sooty dark lashes, and vulnerability that is never ever seen in waking hours, by anyone, ever. He is lovely. Weird, and twisted, and lovely. The covers have slipped, and he pulls the blankets up, tucks the man in and puts a careful arm about the compact form. It is easy to slip into being the big spoon, especially when a body fits against his so neatly, especially when Ramsay is not conscious to demand he is the one in control. He breathes cigarette smoke, and beer, and that spicy anger that permeates, and tries to go back to sleep.

 

Beric is seriously fucked.

 

This was not supposed to involve feelings, this.

 

* * *

 

 

The drive from the Dreadfort to King’s Landing is endless, and Ramsay is running on adrenaline, nicotine, and motorway service station coffee. He only smokes like this when stressed, when Roose is involved in his life, and he tears open another packet of fags and pulls one out with his teeth. Beric wordlessly lights it with one of his many lighters, not taking his eyes from the boredom of a road upon which they drive.

 

Walda gave them plenty of wedding cake, and sandwiches, and made Beric promise to text when they got home. For some reason she thinks they live together, and neither were arsed to gently put her straight. Emotionally he is drained, physically he is wrecked. Visiting home does that to him. He lounges in the passenger seat of the sensible brick-shaped Volvo, booted feet on the dashboard, cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth, searching for something that isn’t shit on the radio.

 

Which is difficult.

 

“Just put Classic FM on if you can’t find anything.”

 

“Kerrang is shit these days. Evanescence can not be classed as metal.” He pauses at something heavier, listens for ten seconds, then twists the dial. “Planet Rock is shit. This is all shit. Why can’t they play non-shit. Stupid shit.”

 

“Put on a CD then. In the glove box”

 

He rummages in the compartment. Most of the disks are classical, embracing a tonne of requiems. Beric is fascinated with death, mostly because he tends to almost die on a regular basis. A pirate copy of something catches his eye, even though no one has written on the silver surface, and he shoves it into the player, settles back, flicks his cigarette butt out of the window.

 

Familiar strings swell, and Ramsay freezes.

 

_ See the stone set in your ey- _

 

“You said it was Thoros who likes this bollocks!”

 

_ Sleight of hand and twist of f- _

 

“I did. He does. It might be one of his he forgot.”

 

_ With or without- _

 

“It’s going to be the entire bloody  _ Joshua Tree  _ knowing my fucking luck! Kill me the fuck now.”

 

_ My hands are tied, my body bruis- _

 

Ramsay does what any self-respecting man would do in such circumstances. He rips the CD from the dashboard and throws it out the window. Narrowly avoids pegging a passing pigeon with his throw. He is, after all, a decent rugby player. Cheers as the car behind runs over the abandoned disc and mashes it into the tarmac.

 

“Fuck Bono. Fuck U2.”

 

“Yes Ramsay.” That certain tone, tempting and maddening and dripping with promise, and he turns to find Beric looking very innocent indeed.

 

“Fuck you. When we get home, you are going to break, bitch.” Ramsay needs the release, the pressure cooker of his mind whistling and screaming.

 

“Yes, Ramsay. Of course, Ramsay. Three bags full, Ramsay.” Beric is tall enough that he can use his knees to steer if necessary, and he does, even if they are going seventy on a mostly deserved motorway through the middle of The Vale. The growl elicited at his words means Beric’s fingers slide into his hair and trail across his neck. For some reason, considering he can drive several army vehicles including a full-sized tank, the stupid bastard never learned to use a manual. Automatic means free hands, for chewing, or hair stroking, or waving about when talking. Beric talks with his body, almost like a continental. Sometimes he gets rather enthusiastic about a subject - usually Rh’llor - and almost smacks passengers in the face in his exuberance. A measure of how well you know Beric is if he almost accidentally decapitates you with a flying talkative elbow.

 

He is asleep in minutes, even full of coffee and sweets, a slight smirk at his lips; Ramsay dreams contentedly of blood, and leather, and Beric.

 

Which is strange.

 

For the last six months, the star of his subconscious possesses quirky hipster looks, painted-on skinny jeans, and a flirtatious manner that could drive the angels to fall. A gap-toothed, big-cocked, arrogant bastard who exists to smoke weed and fuck everyone who isn’t called Ramsay.

 

For the first time in six months he doesn’t dream of Theon Greyjoy.

 

He doesn’t see Beric glance over with an expression caught between fondness and aching sadness, before turning his attention back to the road.

 

* * *

 

**Author's Note:**

> * _Gor:_ The setting for a series of books written by John Norman. The relationship foci are on dominant men and submissive, often slave, women. The Encyclopedia of Fantasy says, "later volumes degenerate into extremely sexist, sadomasochistic pornography involving the ritual humiliation of women, and as a result have caused widespread offence."
> 
> The slave collar described is the sort that can only be removed by the Master using an allen key/normal key that is usually kept unavailable to the sub. In the books they are supposed to be permanent around the throats of the female slaves. The majority of people that I know who wear them treat them as such, and never take the collar off, indicative of their 24/7 D/s relationship. They look like [this.](http://www.eternitycollars.com/sites/default/files/collar-titan-a-srgb.jpg) Hence bolt cutters when Thoros can't find the key.


End file.
